


Prezzies

by stoprobbers



Category: Doctor Who
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor, it's your birthday. Happy birthday, Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prezzies

She has plans for him. She's been thinking about it for a while now, does every year, counting down the days by planning and thinking and thinking and planning, outlandish ideas and quiet ideas and ideas involving their friends and family and ideas involving no one but the two of them and their very thick and soundproof walls. The list starts long, gets shorter, and as her consciousness swims up through the inky black of sleep into hazy wakefulness and knows exactly where she's going to start.

She rolls over, cracking her eye open and ready to plan out her sneak attack, and finds the bed warm, but empty.

With a huff and a groan she flops onto her back, frowning at the paint on the ceiling. Between her legs there's a small aching twinge; she dreamed about this last night, she thinks, how she was going to roll over to find him sleeping, shimmy under the covers, and take him in her mouth, sucking slow and hard the way that makes him beg. She was going to feel his hips shift and shudder and buck when he came full awake himself, and she was going to make him come so hard he'd be seeing stars even with the full sun. Then she was going to climb on top of him and fuck him until the only thing left to do was to go back to sleep for another hour or two.

But he's not in bed with her, he's somewhere else, and all those plans are shot to shit. She frowns at the ceiling some more, feels it commiserate with her frustration; half human, full alien, it doesn't matter — the Doctor is still fantastically good at making all her plans go a bit askew.

 From the living room she suddenly hears his voice, a disbelieving and affronted "Oi!" and the more muted sound of cheering on the television. With a final sigh to her friend the bedroom ceiling, she drags herself out bed.

She slips on his shirt, the one he tossed on her vanity chair the night before, because she knows very well how it drives him crazy to see her in it. It's his birthday, after all, and he deserves some presents even if he unknowingly cheated himself out of the best ones already. At the bottom of the stairs she gets a whiff of tea and something sweet and yeasty and gets so distracted she almost trips on one of his trainers. Righting herself against the banister she resolves to ignore her grumbling stomach in favor of seeing what her crazy half-alien has gotten himself up to. As she rounds the corner to their living she can see his head above the back of the couch, hair mussed and half-matted from sleep and some vigorous pulling if the tension in his neck is anything to go by. The television screen looks blurry and green to her sleepy eyes, and appears to be emitting some kind of pseudo-pornographic grunting. She pauses in the doorway and frowns in confusion, which apparently the Doctor can actually hear because he turns to her immediately with a grin.

"You're up!" His huge smile makes her heart flip; the way his entire face lights up with joy at the mere sight of her makes her insides do acrobatics every time. She leans against the doorframe, trying to affect a nonchalantly sexy pose, and crosses her arms across her chest. It serves to bring the hem of his shirt further up her thighs and his gaze skitters over her as he notices. His smile turns wolfish. "You're in my shirt."

"You weren't in bed when I woke up."

"What, and waste a beautiful day like this?" He gestures to the windows, and the shade-dappled morning sunlight beyond.

"You're not outside, though."

"Well, no, but Wimbledon's on."

The hazy greenness and grunting coalesces in her mind around the word 'Wimbledon' and everything about the television, even his reactive cry from a few minutes ago, makes so much more sense. She smiles at him, slow and seductive, and he turns more fully towards her, looking decidedly intrigued.

"What?"  
  
"You should have stayed in bed." She takes a few steps forward until she can rest her hands on the back of the couch, framing his head and giving him a spectacular view of her breasts down the front of his shirt. He stares, as she hoped.

"Why's that?"

"I was going to wake you up with a blowjob."

That startles him, his eyes flying up to hers and filling with awe. She wonders, sometimes, about what goes on in his head when she seduces him; it happens often but every time he still seems to be shocked that it's happening, that he should be so lucky. It often makes her feel lovely, needed and wanted and appreciated, but sometimes she worries it's because he still expects her to leave at any moment. Five years on, she wants to know he feels as confident and easy about her fidelity as she feels about him; she wants him to know, to the core of his soul, that she will spend every remaining second of her life with him. She knows it of herself, and of him. 

His eyes flick back up to hers, breaking that line of thought.

"And what'd I do to deserve that?"

"It's your birthday," she reminds him in a seductive purr, leaning in so his nose is almost right in her cleavage, "or have you forgotten?"

"Oh, right," he mumbles, utterly transfixed by her breasts for a moment before shaking himself out of it suddenly. "Oh, right! My birthday! Yes it's my–Well, look, we can rectify that!"

Suddenly, dramatically, he flops back so he's lying across the couch, adopting a façade of repose and slamming his eyes shut before letting out a huge, exaggerated snore. It shatters her seductive affectations; she collapses into wild giggles instead. One of his eyes pops open.

"Oh, c'mon, it's my birthday, I want my prezzies…"

She clambers over the top of the couch, sliding carefully down so she's straddling his thighs just above his knees, and leans down to blow a raspberry on the strip of stomach exposed between his undershirt and the waistband of his pajama pants. It makes him laugh and his stomach jumps under her mouth.

"No, Rose, come here–"

Fingers scrabble at her shoulders and she slides up until she's straddling his waist  _almost_  in the way she'd been planning to earlier. Her hands, tucked under his shirt, move with her, dragging the fabric up until it's bunched under his armpits. As she strokes her fingers through the manly patch of chest hair she adores, she leans down and places a soft kiss on his lips.

"Happy birthday, Doctor," she says against his mouth and he raises one hand to press against the back of her head, drawing her back down for a deeper, wetter, messier kiss. She lets it go on for as long as he likes, enjoying the ripples of heat it sends through her. He always makes her burn for him.

After a long moment he breaks the kiss, dropping his head back down onto the armrest and looking up at her through heavily lidded eyes. She resumes feeling up his chest, focusing on the change in texture from smooth skin to soft hair, the pebbles of his nipples and contours of his muscles. He grins.

"So what do you want to do today, birthday boy?" she asks. He glances down at her cleavage again, then at the telly, then back to her face.

"Oh, I dunno. Drink tea. Eat cake. Watch tennis. Fuck you. The usual."

She grins, rocks her hips against him and feels him there, a little firmer and more prominent than when she first made herself comfortable.

"Mum wants us over for tea."

"For my birthday, can we not visit your mum?" he asks immediately, hopefully. She laughs.

"Ah, but she's got the cake. And Tony's got some sort of something up his sleeve for you, he's been very secretive all week."

"Welll," he rolls the word around in his mouth and she thinks again about how much she wants to taste him, all of him, and have him taste her in return, "we wouldn't want to disappoint Tony, then, would we? And cake, too; it's not a birthday without cake. Unless, of course, you're up for some adventures with icing and those edible ball bearings; I'm sure I can get a candle to stand in your navel, so we'd be able to follow tradition and everything."

"And what birthday tradition dictates lighting your spouse on fire?"

"I've got to blow out the candles, Rose, or my wishes won't come true."

He reaches up, pops open the button on his shirt she'd only buttoned out of habit, and spreads the cotton wide before reaching up to cup her breasts. He pulls them together, exaggerating her cleavage, and squeezes gently. A thoughtful look comes over his face and he is quiet far too long.

"You're trying to figure out if you can turn my nipples into candles without hurting me aren't you?" He doesn’t reply but she can read it in his eyes; in return, she rolls hers. "You can't, please don't try."

"Unfortunate. It'd be ever so fun to blow those out." He leans up, suckling one nipple for just a moment then releases it to blow lightly on it. She shivers and adjusts herself on his lap again. He is even harder. A cheer from the television distracts them both momentarily, makes them look at the screen.

"I do actually want to watch this," he says after a moment, still holding her breasts. "It's semifinals, and Andy's playing after these two are done."

"Well, yes, it is your birthday. I'll let mum know we won't be over until after tennis is done."

"Brilliant." They watch another point, frozen with her straddling his grown erection and his hands on her chest, and then return their attention to each other. He raises an eyebrow at her. "Speaking of blowing…"

"Oh, I dunno," she hedges, rocking a little against him, watching his eyelids flutter a touch, "You're not even dressed appropriately. Birthday boys don't get presents until they're wearing their birthday suits."

He lifts his arms instantly and she pushes his shirt up over his head, then they wiggle and shimmy together to pull down his cotton trousers. They both fell asleep naked the night before and she's glad to see that while he threw on the pajamas this morning, he didn't bother with pants. One less layer to deal with. She shifts off him, standing next to the sofa as he kicks the pajamas off all the way and sits up, looking at her expectantly. His cock bobs at her, as eager as he. She considers him for a moment, committing this sight to memory.

"Well?" he asks, gesturing to his erection. "Birthday boy, birthday suit! Done and done. Don't have a little birthday hat but really that's just an accessory, not a necessary attribute of the birthday suit itself. In fact, the very notion of a birthday suit implies a complete lack of accessories, so I'd say I've achieved that end quiet nicely, don't you think? So yes: birthday boy, in his birthday suit, would like his birthday blowjob please!"

He's so very eager but she stopped listening at 'birthday hat,' remembering with a start that she still has some in their linen closet with the rest of the party supplies left over from Tony's seventh birthday earlier that year. She darts off to grab one, his incensed voice following her through the hallway.

"Oi! No! Where are you going?! This is not–I want my prezzie!!"

"Just a mo'!" she calls over her shoulder, racing to and from the little closet with a speed that would embarrass her in any other situation but not this morning, no, because she wants to be there, kneeling between his legs with his cock in her mouth and when she looks up she wants to see him flushed and heavy with pleasure, with this little green and yellow and blue hat on his head.

She skids back into the living room, sliding to a stop in front of him holding the garishly colored cardboard cone, and he gapes at her, and it, like a landed fish. With a grin she plops it onto his head and loops the elastic band under his chin.

"You're jok–" he starts but cuts himself off with a groan because she's dropped straight down to her knees between his and taken him in her mouth, no warning, no preamble, just salty hot skin on her tongue like she's wanted since she was asleep in his arms. Instead his words turn into a groan and one hand immediately flies up to tangle in her hair, not pushing or pulling but gripping, holding onto her as she starts to bob on his length. He tastes delicious, she thinks, slowing down even though she feels so flushed and eager, wanting to feel the way he shakes when she draws it out like this. She increases the pressure of her mouth and digs her nails into his thighs and his fingers contract, pulling her hair lightly, and his legs quiver. That's what she wanted, so she does it again. 

He babbles, combinations of her name and pleading words, some nonsense that is nonsense and some nonsense that is Gallifreyan, those words familiar and still so foreign. His left leg shifts, moves in, and as she pauses to swirl her tongue around the tip she feels his toes curl, his nail scratching against her knee. It makes her hum, a pleased sound, as she takes as much of him as she can back into her mouth and, as a result, he shudders and his toes curl again. 

She can  _feel_ , not just hear, him panting, feel the way his stomach is rising and falling and the way his hips are shifting, and knows he's close. He shifts a little more, slides down on the couch so his bum is almost hanging off the edge and she moves with him, rising up higher on her knees and changing her angle to nearly perpendicular, following her mouth with her hand. Another groan come rumbling out of him and she glances up. He's got his head pressed back against the couch cushions, the birthday hat still on but tipped so far forward it's nearly on his forehead; his mouth is hanging open and his eyes are tightly shut. She stares, the sight of him at her mercy sending thick bolts of heat and desire right to the core of her and almost making her forget what she's on about, but then his eyes pop open and look at her, looking at him. She pauses at his tip again, swirling and flicking and watching his eye flutter shut and then pop back open again, focus on her. She winks and it makes him buck.

She knows that move, knows what it means, and doubles down on his cock, moving faster and sucking a little lighter, gripping him more firmly with her hand. His panting gets louder and then suddenly stops, and his fingers tighten in her hair. He holds his breath when he comes, she knows, and swallows smoothly when his seed hits her tongue. She looks up at him again, the flush on his cheeks and the sheen of sweat on his chest and that birthday hat, still on his head despite the way he's turning it from side to side, caught up in his pleasure.

He's gorgeous.

He lets out his breath finally when he's done, breathes deep and slow as she releases him, wipes her mouth, and climbs back up to straddle his lap. He is cool and damp and limp between her legs now but she's not bothered. Carefully she adjusts the hat back onto the top of his head and waits for him to open his eyes before she kisses him. She intends for it to be a sweet, almost chaste thing, but he sweeps his tongue in her mouth, tasting himself on her. It makes her moan a little and he wiggles a hand between them, feeling her between her legs where she is warm and wet.

"Did you like your prezzie?" she asks against his mouth, rocking her hips in time with his hand as he strokes and teases her. It'll be a moment before he's ready to go again in any way, but she appreciates the sensations he's creating even if he's not going to follow through quite yet. He regards her through half-closed eyes, smiles.

"Mmm, I loved my prezzie. I hope it's not my only prezzie, though."

"Greedy," she grins and kisses him again. "Well, you've got your tennis and I'll get us some tea and then, whenever you're ready, you can fuck me like you wanted to."

He smiles fully at that, removes his hand and watches her climb of his lap, slowly adjusting himself up to sit more properly on the couch.

"Oh, I do love birthdays."

She laughs and drops one more kiss on his mouth, unable to resist, before she trots off to the kitchen. When she returns, a mug of tea in each hand, he's still naked, still wearing the birthday hat, and still sitting in the same position. And he's singing Happy Birthday, to himself.


End file.
